November 06, 2013

Drinks with Poets: Sheila Squillante [by Sherrie Flick]

In Pittsburgh people like to give directions by referencing places that no longer exist. Thus: Butterjoint is where More's used to be.

More's (pronounced more-ayes), a fine old-time dining establishment, had an ancient bartender who knew his cocktails and the appropriate glasses in which to serve them. A giant piano sat stuffed into the corner with a faithful group gathered round belting out show tunes. It was dark and dank and fading, and we knew it was destined to close, but we loved More's and often hung out there, the youngest patrons at the bar by about 30 years.

Butterjoint, an off-shoot of Legume restaurant next door, replaced More's bar and has recently zoomed into its own with handcrafted cocktails and a small menu that hosts excellent pierogies. It's a bubbling beam of happiness on Craig Street in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh and a great place to hang out. I covet the tiny tables by the front window. Sheila Squillante and I grabbed one of those and tried on an old-timey Pickle Back for size. --Sherrie Flick

Pickle Back: Old Heaven Hill Bonded Bourbon, house sour pickle brine

Pickle Back

By Sheila Squillante

I had no idea I loved bourbon until two years ago. Someone
handed me a paper cup with an inch of Basil Hayden’s at a funeral after-party.
“Two fingers, neat,” I would later learn is the term for this. I sipped it
carefully, a little tentatively. I expected, I think, to hate it. But I did not
hate it. No, I did not.

I touched it lightly with the tip of my tongue and let it
spread, smoothly over every surface of my mouth. I swallowed and it was like
ingesting autumn light. Not burning but warmly suffusive. Golden and
everywhere. I was at a funeral and this was all body, all life. I loved it.

Learning this love, coming to embrace it as part of me, has
felt like an unlikely blessing, much like finding real, dear friendships in my
40s. I never expected it but how sweet and welcome! What a comfort and balm.

So I do associate bourbon with new friends (like the one who
asked me to be part of this series), but also, actually, with old ones.

My friend, the poet and sociologist, Sandra L. Faulkner, has
been drinking Maker’s Mark for as long as I’ve known her. We met in a community
poetry class more than ten years ago, and she struck me immediately as a
powerful, feminist force—both her work and her person. Full of whimsy, but not
to be trifled with, Sandra drank Maker’s then the way I drink it now: not neat,
but with one, perfect, icy rock.

She is also a talented knitter, canner, and pickler of
glorious produce, and I have no doubt that were she with Sherrie Flick and me
at Butterjoint, she would also have ordered the shot with a (Delectable!
Unexpected!) back of brine.

Next time my friend comes to town, I’m treating.

“Invitation to a Dead Grandmother”

By Sandra L. Faulkner

It’s
happy hour, Dear Miriam,

I
want you to come meet us

drink
in our church-house

play
hangman with the kid-

the
game that seems like toddler talk

the missing prepositions-

who
needs all of those words?

Notice
your barren worries for me

squirm
well after your death:

knitting
needles wrapped with vests

cookie
butter soft on the counter

child
organized cabinets

with
cans of trout and oysters lined like a bus

service
by size from oven to altar.

I
would pour you a fresh bourbon or scotch

cask
strength and uncut like in the old days

splash
in some pretend soda,

a
toast to the child with your name,

the
one you told me I needed.

It’s
(always) cocktail hour here

at
our house, the church of the petulant parrot:

I want _ Manhattan.

Ignore
the impatient mommy-words that snake

down
the drain at bath time,

the
curtains sewn with crooked hem

because
the (damn) tension is screwed

on
your bequeathed machine,

notice
the kid’s first word-

your
post-children hobby-

under
the kitchen table as he vomits

fur
balls of anxiety with crusty food

after
the ():

I don’t wanta bite the bears

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ they are too strong.

**

Sandra L. Faulkner is the author of
two chapbooks, Hello Kitty Goes to College (dancing girl press),
and Knit Four, Make One (forthcoming, Kattywompus Press). Her poetry memoir, K4, M1: Knit Four, Frog One, is
forthcoming (2014) from Sense Publishers.

Comments

Drinks with Poets: Sheila Squillante [by Sherrie Flick]

In Pittsburgh people like to give directions by referencing places that no longer exist. Thus: Butterjoint is where More's used to be.

More's (pronounced more-ayes), a fine old-time dining establishment, had an ancient bartender who knew his cocktails and the appropriate glasses in which to serve them. A giant piano sat stuffed into the corner with a faithful group gathered round belting out show tunes. It was dark and dank and fading, and we knew it was destined to close, but we loved More's and often hung out there, the youngest patrons at the bar by about 30 years.

Butterjoint, an off-shoot of Legume restaurant next door, replaced More's bar and has recently zoomed into its own with handcrafted cocktails and a small menu that hosts excellent pierogies. It's a bubbling beam of happiness on Craig Street in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh and a great place to hang out. I covet the tiny tables by the front window. Sheila Squillante and I grabbed one of those and tried on an old-timey Pickle Back for size. --Sherrie Flick

Pickle Back: Old Heaven Hill Bonded Bourbon, house sour pickle brine

Pickle Back

By Sheila Squillante

I had no idea I loved bourbon until two years ago. Someone
handed me a paper cup with an inch of Basil Hayden’s at a funeral after-party.
“Two fingers, neat,” I would later learn is the term for this. I sipped it
carefully, a little tentatively. I expected, I think, to hate it. But I did not
hate it. No, I did not.

I touched it lightly with the tip of my tongue and let it
spread, smoothly over every surface of my mouth. I swallowed and it was like
ingesting autumn light. Not burning but warmly suffusive. Golden and
everywhere. I was at a funeral and this was all body, all life. I loved it.

Learning this love, coming to embrace it as part of me, has
felt like an unlikely blessing, much like finding real, dear friendships in my
40s. I never expected it but how sweet and welcome! What a comfort and balm.

So I do associate bourbon with new friends (like the one who
asked me to be part of this series), but also, actually, with old ones.

My friend, the poet and sociologist, Sandra L. Faulkner, has
been drinking Maker’s Mark for as long as I’ve known her. We met in a community
poetry class more than ten years ago, and she struck me immediately as a
powerful, feminist force—both her work and her person. Full of whimsy, but not
to be trifled with, Sandra drank Maker’s then the way I drink it now: not neat,
but with one, perfect, icy rock.

She is also a talented knitter, canner, and pickler of
glorious produce, and I have no doubt that were she with Sherrie Flick and me
at Butterjoint, she would also have ordered the shot with a (Delectable!
Unexpected!) back of brine.

Next time my friend comes to town, I’m treating.

“Invitation to a Dead Grandmother”

By Sandra L. Faulkner

It’s
happy hour, Dear Miriam,

I
want you to come meet us

drink
in our church-house

play
hangman with the kid-

the
game that seems like toddler talk

the missing prepositions-

who
needs all of those words?

Notice
your barren worries for me

squirm
well after your death:

knitting
needles wrapped with vests

cookie
butter soft on the counter

child
organized cabinets

with
cans of trout and oysters lined like a bus

service
by size from oven to altar.

I
would pour you a fresh bourbon or scotch

cask
strength and uncut like in the old days

splash
in some pretend soda,

a
toast to the child with your name,

the
one you told me I needed.

It’s
(always) cocktail hour here

at
our house, the church of the petulant parrot:

I want _ Manhattan.

Ignore
the impatient mommy-words that snake

down
the drain at bath time,

the
curtains sewn with crooked hem

because
the (damn) tension is screwed

on
your bequeathed machine,

notice
the kid’s first word-

your
post-children hobby-

under
the kitchen table as he vomits

fur
balls of anxiety with crusty food

after
the ():

I don’t wanta bite the bears

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ they are too strong.

**

Sandra L. Faulkner is the author of
two chapbooks, Hello Kitty Goes to College (dancing girl press),
and Knit Four, Make One (forthcoming, Kattywompus Press). Her poetry memoir, K4, M1: Knit Four, Frog One, is
forthcoming (2014) from Sense Publishers.